


what a pleasure it is to be ignorant

by manhattan



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Adaptation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Explicit Language, Gen, Human Outsider (Dishonored), Mingling With The Humans As One of Their Own, POV Outsider, Rumors, Slice of Life, The Emily/Outsider Is Extremely Peripheral (i.e. Blink and You'll Miss It)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19084630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: No one thought it possible, but the new Royal Protector is even more mysterious than the last.





	what a pleasure it is to be ignorant

**Author's Note:**

> this fic probably has spoilers for death of the outsider, so tread with caution + as always, it is an unbeta'ed fic so feel free to tell me if i slipped up somewhere
> 
> re: the fic, i dont even know what to say about this. i was just thinking about what the outsider would do after DotO and this happened, so, like, this absolutely _is_ self-indulgent bullshit disguised as a character study but i still had fun and that’s all that matters … i guess ?? i wasted way too much time with this, far more than i was expecting, so basically: lmao kill me bye

**I. The Boyle Sisters**

The Royal Protector is introduced into society one cloudy night, in a lavish party celebrating Corvo Attano’s permanent shift in position. Because as much as Attano stretched himself impossibly thin, impossibly well, one man alone cannot cover the safety of a country _and_ of the Empress.

This comes as no surprise to anyone. It’s about time that Lady Emily acknowledged that her father is getting older, and that her enemies are getting bolder. Delilah was interesting for all of two weeks, but the fascination ran out after she stopped imprisoning low-standing citizens and started butchering the gentry. It’s really for the best that any other aspiring enemies be cut down before they have the chance to grow.

They wonder who the new Protector will be, now that Mayhew has been put to rest. Perhaps the dark-skinned woman who magicked the Empress away after the coup? Having a low-born in the court again would certainly be exciting, now that Attano wears his custom-tailored milord’s role so well. The high society _must_ have something to talk about, after all, and it’s been so long since Jessamine stirred the waters.

But, oh, when the Empress gestures towards the dark-haired young man no one bothered to notice, _well,_ who cares about a mysterious ship captain anymore?

The new Royal Protector is a clean-shaven man with pale eyes and an inscrutable expression that somehow hints at contempt. How anyone could’ve mistaken him for a servant is ludicrous, really, _should_ be, but those are past waters, and the rumor mill begins to churn the second the Empress finishes her introduction.

Well, perhaps not so immediately. The room firstly holds its breath, waiting for the new Protector to speak. He looks at the crowd, impassive, almost – should they even think it – _cold_ , and does not utter a single word. He does not motion a single gesture. He doesn’t even seem to _see_ them, and it is then, finally, that the nobles lean into each other and whisper.

Had Delilah’s short reign not resulted in the death, exile, or flight of the larger part of the old families, perhaps one member of the nobility would have recognized the Protector’s cold demeanor, so alike to Attano’s all those years ago. But Delilah’s short reign has resulted in such, and so the rumors are new as opposed to parallels.

And as the night unfurls, so does the tale of the new Protector.

“He looks far too contemptuous to pass as an emancipated slave,” says Lady Boyle, behind her pearl-studded fan. It glitters beautifully under the oil-lamps, both of them cadavers of the sea. “Whoever thought of that one should invest in a pair of glasses … Even if that _would_ be a fascinating story.”

“Sharper tongue than any savage’s,” agrees her sister, into her fizzling cider glass. “I heard him introducing the Sarkonian dignitaries, and he sounded like he knew something unpleasant about every single one of them.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing just how sharp,” says the third, and her voice is sweet like molasses. She edges forward when the Royal Protector’s eyes rake the crowd again, breathing in until her corset strings strain.

“And look, he wears no sword,” Lady Boyle notices, ignoring her sister’s incorrigible lust. “How curious.”

“No gloves, either,” her sister says, marveling. It has been _ever_ so long since the Imperial circle has dared to show their hands in public. She wonders who they are trying to fool. “Such lovely hands.”

“Not a miner, then, either.”

“Good, thick knuckles, though,” says the third, and licks her lips.

The Royal Protector looks at each of them in turn, eyes like shards of a sun-whitened whiskey bottle, and leans over the Empress’ shoulder. As he ought to do, he leaves one palm-worth of space between his chest and the Empress’ ruffled shoulder pieces.

His demeanor is suitable, then, even if it contrasts against the fatherly closeness of the former Protector; it means he’s not a total fool. And they are both _very_ proper, Empress and Protector. But the way his mouth moves quietly and without excess near her ear still looks positively lascivious.

The Boyle sisters all hold their breath, aching to hear over the crowd’s polite revelry.

“I dare say he is looking at _me_ ,” says the third, in a high, fluttery pitch. The other two elbow her into silence and common sense. Poor thing has never been the same since her failed elopement with Lord Birsby.

The Empress’ eyebrows raise ever so slightly when he finally leans back, standing at full and derisive attention, and the Boyle sisters pretend to be busy with the buffet table when Emily Kaldwin turns her intense gaze on them all.

“Figures,” says Lady Boyle, fanning herself petulantly. “Like mother, like daughter?”

“How droll,” says her sister, filling her glass again. “It appears we’ve found ourselves a story after all.”

“Not much of a story, dear sister. It’s probably tradition at this point,” says the third, sighing.

They all know a lost cause when they see one, no matter how pretty it is, and how badly they would like to get their hands on it. Still, the following day, word on the street is that the emancipated mine-slave from Pandyssia is still doing physical work (just another kind).

 

 

* * *

 

 

**II. The Abbey**

The Abbey hates the new Royal Protector even more than they do Lord Attano. And yet, unlike the Overseers’ almost-there grip on the Spymaster, shaped out of mysterious accounts and smoky sightings, the Royal Protector offers no reasons to be suspected.

And yet.

“He reeks of heresy,” says an Overseer, hands digging into the sides of his music box.

“His hands are clean, Brother,” says the other, but his eyes are hard behind his mask, and they rest on the man standing beside the throne. “And there are no whispered songs in his pockets.”

“Hm,” the Overseer replies. He is incensed at this fact; that this mysterious man shows off the back of his hands so easily. It feels like mockery, and the vague smile on his pale face does not help.

The Empress should have chosen someone else for the job. Anyone else.

Corvo Attano is out of their reach, at least while his daughter lives and the naysayers are kept humble. Even the Empress herself hasn’t bared her hands since the Copperspoon coup, keeping them tied under grieving bands. This man, though! Word on the street is that this man is low-blooded. He could have been the doorway into the Kaldwin persecution that the Abbey so desperately wants. He _should_ have been.

But his hands are clean, and his pockets are mute.

A sharp voice at the back of his head reminds him that Overseers have killed for less. Another, softer, predicts a tale of ruin and exile after exhumed corpses revealed no magics. So the Overseer only breathes in, feeling bitter. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could—

“Gentlemen,” says the Royal Protector, hands behind his back.

The Overseers do not startle. Their reflexes have been tempered by years of witch hunts—but their hearts tighten uncomfortably, and the hairs on their bodies rise. The young man approaching has gone unnoticed by both of them, an oversight that could be punished severely if caught by a superior.

“Royal Protector,” greets the Overseer, a façade of politeness, while his Brother struggles to catch his words.

“I wonder,” says the Protector, eyes flashing with what might be mirth, “if there are any threats that I ought to know about.”

The air around him tastes like metal under perfume and ambergris soap. As if realizing this, the Protector unlaces his hands and performs a salute, his closed fist white and unscarred as it settles against his chest. A false reminder, hiding his mockery.

The Overseer grits his teeth until they creak together inside his mouth.

The Overseer should twist the dial of the music box and watch him squirm, watch him fall to his knees with wide eyes and bleeding ears. It would invite scandal, and the High Overseer would likely cast him out of the Order for the offense, but—

“No, Royal Protector,” says his Brother, when the silence stretches for too long. “The Outsider’s corruption has yet to breach this place, sir.”

The Royal Protector smiles, head cocked just so, and laces his hands behind his back once more. The picture of satisfaction, better than Sokolov could ever attempt.

“That is good to hear, but I am disappointed all the same,” the Protector says, looking at his Brother like he can see right through the metal of his mask. “I have yet to hear the melody of the Abbey’s music boxes, you see. I have been told they’re quite pleasing to one’s ear.”

“They are not instruments,” says the Overseer, and has to let go of the box before his knuckles pop. “Nor are we street entertainers. You would do well to remember this, _milord_.”

“Brother,” says his own, a warning in his tone. Then he turns to the Protector again, shoulders tight. “It’s – his fervor is laudable, sir, is it not?”

“Of course, I meant no offense,” says the Royal Protector, shifting that pale-green gaze to the Overseer. “In fact, I wish to formally extend my gratitude to the Abbey. The Tower would not have been the same after the coup, if not for you.”

That smile. Barely there, but just enough to provoke. Is the Overseer the only one who sees it?

“Thank you, sir,” says his Brother.

“And still, even as the threat has passed, the Abbey continues watching over Her Imperial Majesty,” the Royal Protector says, eyebrows rising as that gaze cools. “Such zeal and diligence, gentlemen.”

The Overseer cannot speak, for fear of what curses might come out. He nods instead, hands kept open at his sides. The music box hangs heavy on his chest, unused and useless. How his fingers itch, ache! And still he only watches, busy tempering his fury.

“You honor us, my lord,” says his Brother, upon realizing the Overseer will not, and his body is all one line of tension.

The Protector’s smile is as clean and cool as the ice sculptures set amidst the banquet tables. Then it drops, as quickly as it was carved, and his Brother’s throat works as he swallows.

“Think nothing of it,” says the Royal Protector, expression empty, and walks off when the next dignitary approaches the throne.

The Overseer prays fervently that night, and, for the most part, even manages to keep the angry spite out of the scriptures.

He imagines what the Protector would look like before his music box. If his skin would sizzle and peel out like a heretic’s, if his eyes would turn over whitely in their sockets like a witch’s – or if he would smile that knife-blade smirk and remain straight-backed, out-of-reach, revenge simmering at the back of his green gaze.

The next day, as his back stings with freshly-healed lashes, he asks to be transferred out of the Tower. The Spymaster himself oversees his request, and he is sent to Karnaca the following week.

He tells himself does not regret it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**III. The Kitchens**

The Royal Protector has yet to personally request a dish from the kitchens. This is not uncommon, as Lord Attano is fond of starving himself when he is enraptured by budding conspiracies, but it is disappointing.

Lady Emily has returned from her exile with a less expensive appetite, and the matron has had less and less opportunities to exercise her culinary creativity. Outsider knows she can’t at home, with how her children pick at everything that they can’t recognize on sight. And now, even Dunwall Tower! This newly-imposed frugality is wise, surely, but it is also so very frustrating.

“No loss there, I’ll bet that them folks over on Pandyssia don’t even know what’s considered posh to eat,” says the newest kitchen girl, still unused to propriety. Then she bares her teeth as she thinks, wrinkling her nose. “At least that’s what they say, right?”

“Be _quiet_ , girl,” the matron snaps, over the simmering carrot cream.

The other servants chuckle as the kitchen girl goes pink, her gaze lowering to the cutlery arranged on the table. Half of it was thrown out after the coup, rusty from Void-touched witch poisons, and Her Majesty has yet to replace it. The matron wonders if she even will, because Karnaca has always had those fancy things like workers’ unions and regulations, and silver keeps getting harder to mine.

Besides, Lady Emily seems to care more for legislations and meetings than throwing balls and fêtes, nowadays.

“Words carry far around here, is all,” the matron adds. She is not entirely heartless.

“Spymasters are _very_ good at listening in, is what she means,” another woman quips, looking up from the linens’ closet drawers.

“Makes you wonder if Lady Emily knows the latest gossip, doesn’t it?” the serving boy asks, headed towards the half-open window. His tray clatters against the empty kitchen table as he rummages through his pockets.

“You don’t think—” gasps the kitchen girl, delighted eyes on him.

“We had a bet going, once,” the woman replies, folding the fabric with a dreamy look on her face. “Back when Lady Emily was younger, and when that lovely suitor of hers was always around—“

“Lovely indeed,” says the serving boy, blowing fresh cigarette smoke with a long sigh. “I wonder what could explain such a prolonged absence.”

“I’m sure the new Royal Protector would know,” asks the linens’ woman, and winks at him over her shoulder.

“Outsider’s eyes! You three are going to end up on the street if anyone hears you,” the matron states loudly, and turns off the stove, searching for the pot’s lid.

“We’re not saying nothin’ bad,” the kitchen girl complains, setting down a spotless fork.

“I dare say I agree,” says the Royal Protector, legs dangling where he sits on the kitchen table.

The kitchen girl smothers a scream as the fork goes flying out of her hand, taking two steps back and bumping into the linens’ woman, who falls face-first into the drawer and drags the serving boy down with her. The matron’s heart goes tight and cold in her chest just as the silver falls into the pot and splashes soup everywhere.

“Your High—my lor— _Royal_ —“ the kitchen girl squeaks, nearly stumbling into a chair as she hurries into a trembling curtsy. “Sir!”

The serving boy is in the midst of a coughing fit, having seemingly swallowed down his cigarette, while the linens’ woman struggles to wipe fresh carrot stains off of the fabric.

“My lord,” the matron hurries to say, grabbing the girl by the shoulders and pushing her behind her back, into a darker corner of the kitchen, “forgive us, we were not expecting you—“

“I noticed,” says the Protector, half-smiling, and the servants all still on tenterhooks.

Lord Attano is usually forgiving with the staff, even as they are caught wondering about Lady Emily’s former lover or how she sometimes forgot to close her window when she returns from her escapades. But Lord Attano has had years to know them, to study them. The Spymaster knows, better than anyone, that words can be weaponized, but that theirs _never_ will.

The new Royal Protector is a stranger to them, and they know not if he will deem their idle gossip a threat. He does not know them in the way Lord Attano does, has never seen them before now, and he can very well kick them out of the tower before his half-smile even twitches.

“How can we serve you, my lord?” asks the matron, still shielding the kitchen girl from his pale eyes. She swallows down her anxiety, hands flat against her apron. “Dinner’s almost ready – we were about to send a tray up to Lady Emily’s quarters.”

The Royal Protector holds her gaze for an interminable second, and then looks down at the silver tray beside his thigh. The serving boy is tearing up with the effort not to cough, face red and blotchy, but he still stands at attention and nods.

“I am on my way there,” the Protector finally says, descending from the table. “It’s no trouble to take it myself.”

The matron does not argue about duty, though she is not meant to let a lord do any work. Instead, she turns to the stove, fishes out the silver fork and reaches for a ladle.

“The bowls, girl,” she snaps, and the kitchen girl is beside her in a second, setting down ceramic dishes next to the pot. The matron serves two, and the tray is ready.

The Protector watches them work in evaluating silence, eyes darting here and there as they fit together like well-oiled cogs. His eyes are as beautiful as they are unsettling, an exquisite shade that fails to hide his interest in them.

“Thank you,” he says, carefully enunciated, and walks out the kitchens with a final nod.

For a long time, nobody speaks. They all stand quiet, contemplating how they will find another line of work in such hard times. The matron thinks of her children, and then shakes her head, clears her throat, and _right, then,_ orders them all back to work.

The Royal Protector does not come again. The letters of dismissal remain unsent.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**IV. The City Watch**

“Well, spill it, then,” the officer says, edging forward on her stool. She enjoys gossip too much for her station, and her own good.

“Last week, someone tried to break into the Empress’ chambers,” the veteran says, setting down his pint. It sloshes over the rim, spills onto the polished wood of the counter.

“You’re joking,” the guardsman says, eyebrows lifting. “What were they after?”

“My money’s on fancy Empress jewels,” says the officer, and twirls that coin again. “If you’re up for it,” she adds, grinning with all of the teeth she still has.

“Bug off,” the guardsman replies, clicking his tongue.

“We don’t actually know,” the veteran grumbles, his eyes faraway.

His hands cradle the bottom of the glass where it narrows into its base. Condensation and foam dribble over his calloused fingers, and he thinks of seawater, of how it darkens even when the skies are clear, of how it pulls and pulls and drowns entire ships, all full of men, and never repents.

The officer nudges him with her arm, expectant, and he blinks, adds:

“Well, the Protector got to them first, so.”

“What, did he kill them?” the officer asks, startled enough that the coin spins out of her fingers. “Didn’t think he had it in him, with what looking so posh all the time—”

“We don’t know that, either,” the veteran says. “No one’s found the bodies, yet.”

“What, so, he couldn’t catch them?” The guardsman laughs, but it is a fixed tone, propped-up without comfort. “Not much of a protector after all, if he can’t even get a hold of two cat burglars.”

“I wonder,” the veteran says again, and looks down at the amber shade of his beer. “It’s not like anyone knows what he’s actually capable of.”

“What’s _that_ mean?” asks the officer, and wipes booze-shiny lips on the well-worn sleeve of her uniform. It frays there, tiny little lines poking out like baby hair, and once upon a time the veteran would bark at her to fix it up.

Now he just takes another sip of his drink, and wonders.

“Well, he doesn’t train with us, so no one knows what he can – or can’t do,” the veteran explains, eyes on the bottom of the glass. “Outsider’s eyes, the man doesn’t even have a _sword_.”

The Protector’s hands had smelled of metal, and the bitter-cool air of a mountain top, but there hadn’t been a single drop of blood on the Imperial rugs; only an askew painting of the streets of Karnaca, and even that was fixed with a push of the Protector’s bony finger.

“Does it matter?” scoffs the officer, rolling her eyes. “From what I’ve heard, a spring breeze could knock him on his bony ass. ‘S not like the Empress is fooling anyone. Probably just wanted someone pretty to warm her bed at night.”

“I wonder,” the veteran says, and slides his glass further away, hands motioning towards his belt. The beer sits heavy and chilled at the bottom of his gut, drunk too fast and too soon after his paltry, canned dinner.

“At least the Roy— the Spymaster used to train with us,” says the guardsman, all nostalgic, while the veteran loosens the buckle. The guardsman is older and more skilled than he lets on, if he had the honor to spar with Attano.

The Spymaster has not sparred with the guards since the Empress’ death, and no one expects him to do so again. Trust and devotion are a hard things to nurture, to grow, and Hiram Burrows knifed Attano’s right in their pale, soft, Imperial bellies. Watched them bleed from his tower while Attano starved and fled like the plagued mice.

Attano has fought too many guardsmen to want to repeat such an exercise.

“No shit?” asks the officer, eyes bright again.

“Yeah,” the guardsman answers, and heaves a long sigh. “I ain’t ever seen no one move like that, I’m telling you. I don’t know what they feed them there down on Karnaca, but ... “ He sighs again, sloshes his pint around until it licks at his fingers, and then he licks at them too. “I don’t know what this new boy is like, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Lord Corvo.”

“I wonder,” says the Protector from his stool beside the veteran, eyes crackling like the fires on the bartender’s stove.

His rings click together when his hands meet, all layered metal, even in scent, and then the veteran is on his feet, grabbing at air. The Protector hands him back his sword with the flick of his elegant wrist, muscle chords shadowed as the blade rests on his palm.

How polite, the veteran marvels briefly, because the fear soon leaves no space for other thoughts.

The officer and the guardsman have nearly fallen off their stools, but their swords are in their hands, at least. The Protector doesn’t seem concerned with them, though, as he leans over just slightly to … re-offer the veteran’s sword.

“Put those away,” the veteran barks, now, without any bite, and takes his blade, sheathes it after two tries. “Lord Protector,” he finally says, fist curling against his drumming chest.

The young man says nothing to them. He merely turns away to peer into the veteran’s beer glass as if he’s expecting to find something there.

“I dare say, officers,” says the Protector, in a cool, smooth breath, “there must be a better place to speak so freely about the Empress of the Isles.”

The sweat on the back of the veteran’s neck is as chilly as the Protector’s voice. Fat beads begin their descent down his spine, like tiny flecks spat by the ocean after a storm. Again he thinks of the dark space under the waves, seaweed chains and breath caught in the lungs.

“We apologize, Lord Protector,” says the veteran, and takes a deep bow that the other two mimic after half a heartbeat. “The drink – and the shifts are long,” he explains, knowing that nothing he can say will help. “The men mean no harm.”

“Of course,” says the Protector, and turns to them, stepping out of the stool no one saw him sit on. “Errant minds, and all that,” he adds, and clasps his hands behind his back. Metal sound behind his torso as his fingers presumably slot together. “It is no wonder you are curious about the affairs of the Imperial Circle, after all. Things have been so _boring_ , lately.”

The veteran knows better, but the officer has had plenty to drink, and liquid courage is the stupidest and bravest of all.

“Is it true, then?” she asks, before either man can silence her. The slur in her voice is thick, though, and perhaps the men might yet walk away with their positions. “That you’ve magicked those thieves away? ‘Cause that’s the word on the street, sir.”

The Protector offers something that could pass for a smile. Like one of the plagued corpses lying still in the canals, the lines of their faces wobbly and faded as the water ripples above them.

“It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?” he asks back. “Of course,” he adds, “if I were you, Officer Ainsley, I would probably concern myself with my life, rather than others’. How _is_ your brother, these days?”

The drunken blush the officer has sported throughout the night fades like it’s been slapped away. Her face goes as pale as the whites of her widened eyes, and it’s the first time the veteran has seen her like this. It is the first time he hears she even has a brother.

Guardsman and veteran stare at her, hearts heavy and constricting in their chests—

And when they turn to plead for forgiveness, the Protector has already gone, leaving behind three gold coins to pay for their pints. How kind, the veteran thinks amidst the numbing terror, and it is the last time he ever sets foot on the Black Pony Club.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**V. The Empress**

He is very … efficient. This strikes Emily as obvious – freedom from divinity does not extend to freedom from millenia of knowledge. The Outsider is eager to apply his mind into the practice only the real world allows, and both Empress and Spymaster can tell.

If only Sokolov had stayed. All those frutiless years chasing after the Outsider, and now he walks among them, sleeps two doors down from Emily’s room, and makes liberal use of the sealed-off, machinery-full rooms Sokolov left behind. If only he _knew_ —

“Emily,” says her father, and his voice is somehow only half-reproach even though she is fully-distracted. “The sooner you are done with these,” he motions towards the treaties sprawled across her desk, “the sooner you can enjoy the gardens.”

Her father never calls it what it is, her time off: it is nothing but a walk in the gardens like her mother so enjoyed, as opposed to wasting time having winding conversations with her new Protector.

The Outsider, she thinks, enjoys the sunlight most of all. The concept of good food escapes him still, and Sokolov’s masterpieces are ignored even as they hang in the most prominent walls of the Tower – but sunlight, the warmth of it, the sparse, pale freckles it burns onto his face—

She signs her name with a practiced flourish, pushing away thoughts of skin and blood. Once, twice, until the flattened papers can be rolled and handed off to her newest secretary without another thought. Corvo sighs even if he doesn’t, she can tell, but she has spent the day sitting down and her body is still too young to waste away behind quills and contracts.

Still, Emily takes the long way down; her father frowns at her liberal usage of her bedroom’s windows, especially during the day.

The dignitaries from Morley have already gone, and it is a full day before the next batch from Tyvia arrive. Thus the Tower is empty, apart from the rare servant that bows and titters when she passes, and her route is short.

The Outsider is gazing at the sea when she spots him, a dark line amidst the rose bushes. He still prefers black, even if both Emily and her father think it makes him look even more like the paintings of his other likeness. It is a weakness they should not allow. It is a bigger weakness that they _do_.

“Lady Emily,” he says, as always, before she has the chance to call out to him. Emily prefers it like this, as the name he has is not his own, and saying the name she knows him by would land them both in the Abbey’s cells.

“Lord Protector,” she replies, and settles two steps beside him. The guardsmen gossip more than her maids, she has come to find, and there are already enough rumors about the two of them. One is too many, so Emily keeps a distance, always.

“I saw a whale today,” the Outsider says, and his tone might be even, almost bland. “I had forgotten how small they are,” he adds, eyes on the waves down on the cliffs, “and how sound propagates on this side. I could not hear it as it passed, and I wonder if it even sang in the first place.”

Two weeks ago, he drank seawater to see if it tasted better warm or cold. Then he boiled the rest to make salt and vapor, and resurrected one of Sokolov’s old steam engines. It sputtered for hours before the Outsider put it out of its misery for no reason other than because he hadn’t been its creator. The same night, he plucked two thieves out of thin air and disappeared them into mist while Emily was still reaching for her blade.

The most remorseless efficiency.

“We could go on a ship, if it pleases you,” she offers, like he’s Wyman, or Alexis, or anyone other than the being who haunted her dreams as a child and then offered her power as a young woman.

It’s so odd. It is so much easier to speak to him now that he is no longer dark-eyed and cold to the touch. Like she could almost forget what he was, if she could _just_ find the right excuse. But the Outsider won’t let her. Not yet, at least, not while it’s barely been a year since Billie smuggled him into the Tower and disappeared to mourn an assassin.

Emily wonders if any amount of time will make a difference, or if the Outsider will die before he knows what it’s like to be human again.

“I would rather swim,” he says, after a contemplative silence.

“That can also be arranged.” Emily curls a finger around one of the nearest roses and pulls until the stem bends and breaks. She plucks the thorns out while she thinks. “How often do you leave the Tower, Ou— milord?”

She still slips. She wishes it didn’t bring heat to her face, because she is meant to be better than this. But he will never be less than the Outsider, to her.

“When you do,” he replies. Then he blinks, frowns, and amends: “Sometimes, when Corvo does. I suppose it depends on what would happen.”

Emily knows that he can no longer know the world’s possible futures and pasts, but the Void is a selfish lover, and the Outsider is more closely tied to it than any of his Marked. She wonders if that is why he knew to be in her room before her window was even opened. She wonders if that is why he so graciously accepted to be confined in Dunwall instead of savoring the world in his own terms.

What does he know? What has he seen?

“Then I’ll take you along,” she says, instead, “the next time I go down to Karnaca. The water is warmer, there, and the whales are bigger. Older, I suppose.”

“I am aware,” the Outsider replies, because of course he is. She _still_ slips. “I think I would like that,” he adds, and it shouldn’t soothe her so easily but it does. “It would be a reprieve from this boredom, I suppose.”

“Peace isn’t boring,” Emily reproaches, but she can’t help but laugh anyway. Human or not, he is still contrary, growing bored of peace but disliking chaos even more. “Besides,” she adds, more sober, “the oil crisis … it’s going to happen, sooner or later.”

The Outsider’s mouth thins into a smile. He _would_ feel some vindication if the Empire collapsed for lack of whales to butcher. Then, as quickly as it appeared, his face goes smooth and empty again, and he turns those green eyes towards her.

“It would be a simple matter to leave,” he says, and Emily feels the weight of her heart very suddenly, as if it only just materialized in her chest. “The Pandyssia I remember is as beautiful as it is secretive, and no one would think to search there.”

“Is that an invitation?” She can’t help herself, if only because she needs to know if he will abandon her, one day, or if he will at least extend the courtesy of telling her first.

“Karnaca, first,” he settles, and turns to look at the sea again.

“Right,” she breathes. “And later?”

The Outsider smiles, this time, and he looks so young. He was so young.

“Later, we brave the unknown, and relish in what a pleasure it is to be ignorant of what comes next.” His voice is smooth, little more than a murmur, and if she leans in it is only to hear him above the rustling of the water, of the roses.

Content, she turns to the fences as well, overlooking the ocean. There in the horizon, where the sea swallows the world, an enormous whale surfaces and tips its fin out of the water like it’s waving at an old friend. Emily thinks maybe it is, and both of them stay quiet in the sun until later obligations catch up with them.

But before then, Emily says: “That can also be arranged,” and the Outsider’s blurry smile widens and solidifies, as palpable as her own.


End file.
